


Fantastic Justice

by gerty_3000



Category: PAYDAY (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 16:25:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6862945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gerty_3000/pseuds/gerty_3000
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> Run. Run. You can do it, Hox, you can run. He’s seen you take on crowds bigger than this, he’s seen you go in with just your knife and win. You can run. You can do this. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fantastic Justice

“Bain...”

Their earpieces all crackled to life, and each Heister jolted in their seat on the van. They had been hearing the static-y feedback of heavy breathing, of pained noises that were mostly muffled, of expensive shoes hitting concrete hard in an attempt to run away. The sudden break in the background noise, of hearing Hoxton’s voice, choked thick with blood and exhaustion, startled them all out of their terrified stupor. Bain had been directing Hoxton after he had been separated, down alleyways and along back streets. Was this sudden interlude a sign of safety? They cast uneasy glances at each other.

“Yeah, Hox?” Bain sounded utterly exhausted as well, there was fear in his voice.

“I’m not gonna make it out of this, am I, Bain?” Hoxton said. He was so tired. He desperately wanted sleep. He was sure he’d torn a muscle in one of his legs, or maybe he had been shot, or some other harm, because he was limping along the tight alley, huffing into the mic.

“No! I mean, yes! You’re going to make it out! You’re almost there, Hox! I promise you, you’ll meet up with the second driver, you’ll be taken to the safehouse, I’ve already got a doctor on the way there to take care of you. You’re going to be just fine, okay? Okay?” Urgency dripped from his voice, an attempt to convince himself and the man on the run and the clowns in the escape van that it was indeed, going to be just fine.

There was grainy silence for a few moments, or at least, no words were spoken; just the sound of feet hitting the ground, of strained breathing, of grunts and groans of pain muffled by movement. It was getting harder for Hoxton to move, exhaustion overwhelming the ebbing adrenaline. The fire had been put out, much of it had been fed by the oxygen of running and the flesh it ate away as it crawled over his face, his neck, his ribs and his upper left arm, all consumed under hot orange, and left behind it numbed nerve endings that didn’t hurt anymore, if only because they were destroyed by flame.

A wet smacking noise was heard as he parted his lips, and spoke up again, leaning hard against the stained brick wall.

“Bain... How much further?”

He sounded so tired. So tired. Blood dripped from his mouth, his nose, his mask abandoned because it was rubbing so uncomfortably against the melted flesh of his face, hot and stuffy and hard to breathe in. He leaned against the brick wall again, taking sharp, shallow breaths. Dislocated arm hung limply against the exposed left side, the remnants of his blue tweed jacket grinding fibers into exposed sinew. Bain took a breath, it could be heard in the little earpiece, a response primed but cut off by a sudden hoarse shout from Hoxton.

Cops. Cops in front of him, popping out from the entrance (exit?) of the alleyway, a mix of SWAT officers in their thick kevlar and blue uniforms, stark blue, bright and illuminated beacons of color in the dull orange light. Hoxton couldn’t run, his legs weren’t operating the way he needed them to, and when he glanced behind himself, there were more approaching. Slowly. They were so slow. Was it his perception of them, sluggish in his fried brain, or were they just being cautious? What could he do? He had abandoned his gun when it ran out of ammo, a useless contraption cast aside. He could always buy another one for a miniscule price compared to what they raked in on average. He couldn’t even raise his hands in surrender. He stared at them with bleary eyes, mouth gaping open, gasping, still shallow and sharp and it hurt to breathe, it hurt so much, each inhalation drawing sharp pain through his fractured ribs.

Bain was screaming in his ear. Run. Run. You can do it, Hox, you can run. He’s seen you take on crowds bigger than this, he’s seen you go in with just your knife and win. You can run. You can do this.

Hoxton slid down the wall, dragging against the rough brick, his legs gave out beneath him. Still gasping. Still shallow, sharp breaths, hard to take in, hard to push out. His eyelids drooped closed as they approached, guns still pointed prime at him. It was over. He had been separated. They had followed. He could have made it. What went wrong? What went wrong?

He was dimly aware of hands upon him, rough, squeezing hard on shoulder and bicep -he let out a weak cry as their fingers dug into burnt skin, melted muscle- and wrist, hands wrenched roughly behind him with cold metal cuffing him. It was over. It was over. Everything was over.

His head slipped forward, eyes closed, burnt hair falling skewed over his burnt face, drooling blood and saliva thick onto the carpet of the squad car. Not even buckled in. He was so tired. Bain was screaming, there was a clatter, it wasn’t just Bain. The rest of the gang was shouting too, trying to will Hoxton to escape.

He let out a small laugh, leaning forward in his seat, pressing the right side of his face against the cool metal of the grate that separated the back seat from the front. It soothed his migraine, seemed to make up for the dull throb on the left side of his face. His voice was light, soft, barely audible over the din.

“It’s over, guys... It’s over...”

Hoxton laughed as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.


End file.
